


Seven Deadly Sins

by Kat Allison (katallison)



Category: due South
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-26
Updated: 2004-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katallison/pseuds/Kat%20Allison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the Seven Deadly Sins challenge on DS Flashfiction.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Seven Deadly Sins

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Seven Deadly Sins challenge on DS Flashfiction.

**Lust**

She only lets herself think about it certain nights, late, alone in bed. When she finally puts out of her mind everything else about the job, the paperwork and meetings and budgets, the one thing that remains--is Fraser. Fraser, and the things a person could do with him ... or not _a_ person, not just any person, but her, her alone. She is, after all, his boss; and he is so very, very obedient.

He would follow her orders; late in the evening, when everyone else was gone, she would summon him. "Here," and he would come; "Stand," and he would pose stiffly, waiting her next command, her next move. She'd start with the collar, ripping the velcro open. She'd say "Lift your arms," while she pulled open one button after another, and he would raise them, so she could push his jacket off, reach for his belt buckle. He could not refuse her, after all. He would spring to attention.

Or ... perhaps a workday, sun streaming in the windows, and she would order him under her desk, crouched and silent. She would guide him with her knees, left hand dropped casually in her lap, pulling her skirt up, pulling him forward by his hair. Her right hand would still be holding reports, budget documents, and the words would blur in her eyes as she felt his smooth cheeks against the inside of her thighs, his strong tongue moving over her at precisely the right pace.

She slept badly on those nights, and the next day she would be especially curt and brusque with Fraser, and he would stand more rigid than ever, obeying her orders, his eyes never once meeting hers, dutiful, as distant as the Arctic. And it wasn't, really, what she wanted. None of it was what she wanted.

**Envy**

It wasn't _fair_. OK, dammit, nobody but a kid expected life to be fair, and he'd swallowed a bellyful of unfairness in his life without puking it up, and he wasn't a whiner. But this, this was just --

He got it, he understood why the new guy got to have Fraser for a partner. Keep the cover going, run the game, and he wasn't saying he _wanted_ to be partnered up with Fraser, he liked his skin in one piece. Or with the new guy for that matter; he liked a quiet life, however much of it a cop could get.

And he knew about standing by your partner. He'd backed up Louie in some dicey situations, held the line, laughed at his jokes, bought his rounds.

He'd ... the thing of it is, he'd done his time, he'd paid his dues, and he deserved ... 

...something better, something _special_ , something like that shimmer that Fraser and the new guy left in their wake when they walked through the station, the spark, the jive and jab, the syncopation, hitting the groove like Monk and Coltrane at the Five Spot--

And instead he had this greasy guy with the dubious hygiene and the stupid jokes, and he backed him up, because that's what you do. He'd laughed at his jokes and tried to jive along with him, like they were some lame-ass minstrel act.

It burned at him, when he let it; he'd watch Fraser and the new guy shimmer their way off on some fucked-up jim-jam adventure, and he'd get in the car with Dewey, who would--wait for it, there it comes, yup--say something stupid. And sometimes it burned him enough that he wouldn't play along, he'd snarl back, and Dewey'd take his best lame shot at a retort, and they'd drive off to their stakeout, and the hours would drag like lead, both of them sitting stiff and pissy. And it just fucking wasn't _fair_. 

**Pride**

Really, Ray could be amazingly annoying at times. As well as completely irrational.

"You cannot expect that kid to testify!" Ray's voice and arms had both been raised, shouting, flailing, and Fraser briefly gave thanks that he himself was beyond such uncontrolled displays. "You don't _get_ it! He does that and he ends up dead! What's the _matter_ with you that you don't get that?"

Fraser had explained to him, calmly and at some length, that the mighty edifice of the law rested at its fundament upon the willingness of the people to do their duty, the dedication of each citizen to the greater good, and Ray had, he'd wager, not heard a word of it, striding and muttering and glaring. 

Later, in the car, Fraser had been polite but distant, and Ray had glowered and driven much faster than was advisable, and when Ray finally dropped him and Frank and Tommy at the Consulate and sped away, he'd been glad, honestly, to see the back of him for a while.

When Ray stopped by the club later on, he'd seemed calmer, almost conciliatory for a moment, and Fraser had been glad to see such evidence that he'd thought things over and come to a right view of the situation. But then he'd swerved off into another tantrum--good lord, "selfish," as if that were anything other than a childish insult.

Honestly, it was a relief to have him gone, so that Fraser could return to standing his watch. He felt quite safe; however hardened a miscreant Mr. Warfield might be, Fraser knew perfectly well that he had the sense to refrain from any direct attack on an officer of the law. He squared his shoulders, and stood in the falling snow, warmed by the knowledge that he was in the right, and soon enough Ray would see the error of his ways. 

  
**Greed**

Panties and bra, to start off with--silk, Chantelle, wine-red, and even if nobody saw it but her you had to set the right note. Then the silk slip, rustling over her head and whispering over the lace of her bra. Pantyhose, so sheer she was terrified she'd poke a nail through pulling them on. And finally, the dress, Roberto Cavalli, green silk with a shimmer of gold in it, snug at the waist and fluttering around her thighs. 

Then the make-up -- _hours_ she'd spent at Sephora, choosing the eye glitter (Paula Dorf, Nymph) and the mascara (Anna Sui), and the lipstick (Vincent Longo, Ravish Sin). She manouevered her hair, carefully spritzing it in place with Aveda Firmata.

Finally, she slid on the Magli pumps, and headed for the door. She paused at the entry table to fish out her keys and drop them in her handbag, and noticed that Tony had brought in the mail. Sitting on top was her Visa bill, and she gave it an uneasy look and slid it to the bottom of the pile.

Out on the street, the darkening air was soft and gentle. The cabbie gave her the eye and tried to make conversation, which was a nice warm-up, but after he dropped her at the club she forgot him, and sailed in, holding her shoulders up and trying to walk smooth, trying not to touch her hair, with that hollow hungry feeling gnawing her stomach. As she moved through the swirl of voices and music, she could feel it -- the heads turning toward her, at least some heads here and there, the eyes on her, giving her that first heady rush of attention. It wasn't quite enough, so as she reached the bar and found an empty table, she turned once, slowly, pivoting, and felt a few more eyes on her, and that was better, but still not quite . . . 

She ordered a Cosmo, and when a really very nice-looking guy came up and asked to join her, it was better, even though he wasn't the _right_ nice-looking guy, and so she had another Cosmo and laughed and chatted, glancing around to the side and over his shoulder, her voice getting louder and higher, willing the eyes to move to her. And they had more drinks, and when he asked her to dance, it was OK, but still not right, the others should be coming around and cutting in, all of them, asking her for a turn, courting her--her _favor_ , because she had _worked_ , she had _made effort_ , and she deserved to have it be ... like in the movies, when all the guys are clustered around, in tuxedoes, eyes only for her, lighting her cigarette and sitting at her feet, and it's good and all but then all of a sudden the _right_ guy comes, the star, and all the others scatter, and he's dancing with her, just the two of them, swooping and twirling in the spotlight, in the moonlight ...

And then she bumped someone who spilled a drink on her, on her new Roberto Cavalli dress, and she was crying all of a sudden, tears smudging all her beautiful makeup, and it was all wrong, all of it, it wasn't enough, it never would be.

  
 **Anger**

It wouldn't usually have been any big deal--Joey'd been skimming the take, the kind of stupid move a dumb kid would make, but it was a familiar sin with a set punishment, and what you do is just dole out the beating and then have the little talk about the consequences of any future fuck-ups, and things move on. 

But it had been a bad week, everyone in the world conspiring to piss him off, and now Joey was whining, and Armando did not like whiners--so he was putting a little more spin on it than usual as he smacked the kid around. And even that shouldn't have been any big deal, except that Chepo was stupid enough to open his yap and say, "Hey, boss, take it easy, huh?"

He stopped, shaking his hand out, breathing hard, and then he turned. "You say something?"

Chepo took a step back. "I just--all I'm saying is, you don't gotta get so mad, right?" 

It echoed in the bare room, echoed in his head -- _don't gotta get so mad, don't get so mad_ \--

And that did it, flipped the switch, he could feel the red burn surging through him. "Yeah? You telling me what to do? Maybe you should all just shut the fuck up." He spun back, swinging his arm, and hit the kid _hard._ And again, and again, and every blow shut up another one of the voices--Frannie yipping _Hey bro, just chill, OK?_ and _smack_ she was quiet, Angie giving him a smirk and saying _Y'know, Ray, you're cute when you're mad_ and _smack_ she shut up, Welsh droning _Detective, you finished with your little tantrum?_ and _smack_ , he put a cork in it, and then it was Fraser, Fraser, with the big calm eyes, telling him _Ray, that's not helping the situation_ and _Honestly, Ray, a man needs to control his temper,_ and _Ray, there's no need to get angry_ \-- and he kept hitting the kid harder and harder, until finally that voice faded out into silence, and he could stop, panting, feeling the sharp ache in his hand. He lifted it, rubbing the knuckles against his mouth, tasting blood.

He turned away, not looking at Chepo, or at the shaking mess tied to the chair. "You take me _serious_ from now on. You got it?" And there was nothing shimmering red in the corner of the room, nothing there, that was just the rage still burning in him, or a trick of the light. His arm was aching like hell, but he was strong, strong, he'd never felt stronger in his life.

**Gluttony**

"More." 

He can't even recognize his own voice, he sounds crazy and hoarse and anyway he's got his mouth buried against Fraser's belly, his tongue sticky and thick with Fraser's come. He is holding on so hard, so tight to Fraser's hips that he'll leave bruises, and he can't _not_ hold that hard, he hasn't had anything to hold onto for so fucking long--

"Ray." He can feel the vibration in the muscles under his mouth, and he ignores it, he keeps on licking, biting, tasting sweat and skin and--

"Ray, please." Hands on his shoulders, trying to push him away, and he shakes them off. "That's enough."

 _Enough?_ What the _fuck_ does he -- there's no such _thing_ as "enough," there could never in the whole fucking _universe_ be enough of this, he could do this for _years_ and he'd still be hungry, he--

" _Ray._ " He can hear the edge in Fraser's voice now, and it makes him crazy, he snarls against Fraser's belly button and rubs his face there, back and forth, like a dog, like the fucking animal he is, he doesn't care, who the hell wants to be a human being anyway, Dief's got the right idea, you take and you eat and you fuck and--

\--and then Fraser's pushing him off, _hard_ , and he falls onto his back, panting, and Fraser does this big floundering scramble and gets to his feet, standing there, looking down at him. He's sprawled on the sheets, gasping, feeling like something's been ripped out of his _guts_ , and Fraser's standing there all upright and tight, looking like he's in full dress uniform even though he's stark naked, staring down at him.

"Ray." He stops, and for a minute the only sound is Ray's breathing, harsh, with the rasp of an edge of a snarl in it. "Ray, I'm sorry, but really, you can't--that is, we've had enough for now, don't you think?" Then he picks up his goddamn clothes and starts putting them on, fast and precise. "I'll see you at nine tomorrow, will that be good?"

And Ray knows he should pull himself together and engage his brain, but all there is in him right now is this throb of _more more more_ and he says "Fraser, please--god, please, come back here, I need--" And he stops, almost strangling, because the words just aren't enough, he's bleeding out here. "I _need_ "--

Fraser jerks like he's been shot, he shakes all over for a minute, and then he buttons his shirt cuffs like he's locking a door, and he says "Ray. I'm sorry, but you must understand--there are boundaries, and there are limits--" Ray can't help it, he makes this growling sobbing noise that comes straight out of his ripped-out guts, and Fraser doesn't say one more thing, he just turns, and Ray watches him stride out, he hears his boots going _thud thud thud_ on the floor, and then the door clicking shut.

And he lies on the bed, shaking, as the taste of Fraser's sweat and come turn bitter on his tongue.

**Sloth**

What the hell. Women, how could you figure 'em? He pushed open the door to his apartment, flicked on the light, and padded in, pulling his necktie off. What the hell was it with women?

It'd been a nice evening, or so he'd thought. He'd picked her up as usual, right on time, paid for the rip-off valet parking like always so she didn't have to walk, they'd had a nice martini and then dinner at their favorite place. He'd remembered to ask her how her week had been, and to ask the follow-up questions so she could tell he was listening, like he knew you were supposed to. Everything'd been hunky-dory.

Except he forgot you're never really supposed to tell women what you're really thinking, or maybe he'd had little too much of the wine and got careless, because when he was in the middle of talking about that stupid broad who'd let her greasy boyfriend scam her out of her savings and had ended up crying all over Huey's desk, she'd cut in right in the middle and said, "Harding? Do you really believe that?"

"Believe what?" He blinked at her, as she raised her napkin and put it to her lips before settling it back in her lap.

"What you said just now. That a person would have to be an idiot to believe in true love."

There was a reproving note in her voice, like he was supposed to take it all back and apologize, and that made him feel a little belligerent. So instead he took another swallow of wine and said, "I tell you what, it's a nice idea and all, but it's one of those nice ideas that just don't hold up. I mean, hey, two people can like each other, they can have a good time, just like us, you know? But you start dragging all that _true love_ stuff in, _romance,_ and pretty soon? All you got is a big mess."

Which was a stupid thing to say, he knew it as soon as he'd said it, and so he waited glumly for her to get mad so he could try to soothe her down again. But instead she just shook her head and looked at him and said, "The problem with you, Harding, is that you're lazy."

" _Lazy_?" Now he was the one raising his voice, which wasn't how it was supposed to go.

"If you just want to have a good time, fine. You can do that with anyone, you can go hang out with your boys from the division. But if you want a _relationship_ \--" She leaned forward, nailing him with her eyes, and hoo boy, all of a sudden he felt like he was on the wrong side in the interrogation room. "Then you're going to have to put in some work."

He was outraged. "And I'm not working? I put on a nice suit, I pick you up, I--"

"You buy me dinner, you tell me stories. Yes." And now she sounded mad, in a quiet way. "You don't--you're all locked up in there, you don't let me see what's really going on inside you."

Which was exactly the kind of sentence to drive him crazy. "Yeah, let me tell you something, maybe you don't really want to see that, not if all you want is some half-assed romance fairy tale." He put a fist down on the table, next to his plate. "I don't do fairy tales. What you see is what you get."

"I'm not asking for fairy tales." She looked sad, and he wanted to try to do something to make her feel better, except _goddammit_ , and also he'd put his foot in far enough already. "All I'm asking is -- that you meet me halfway. Is that too much work to ask of you?"

He thought, _I listen to you bitch about your job, I laugh at your jokes, I tell you you look nice, what the hell else am I supposed to do?_ But none of that would help the situation any, and he couldn't think of anything else to say, except _Fuck relationships,_ which would be even less helpful. So he sat, glowering at the tabletop, and after a minute she sighed, tossed her napkin on her plate, got up and walked out.

He had to find the goddamn waiter and settle the bill, so that by the time he got out the door after her, she'd caught a cab and was gone. 

And now, home again, he pulled a beer out of the fridge and popped the cap and flicked on the TV, settling down on the sofa. _Fuck_ the dating scene. He was too old for this crap anyway. Next Saturday night, he'd just stay home and watch the Bulls. 


End file.
